Not a Dream
by a-few-of-these-verses
Summary: Lestrade and Donovan visit St. Bart's hospital after Sherlock's fall and encounter more than they had planned. The story is planned to continue to the eventual reunion.
1. Chapter 1

DI Lestrade heard the news in the lift.

"Sir!" Sergeant Donovan jumped in as the doors shut. "He's dead."

"Not now, Donovan." He hadn't slept at all, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do about John and Sherlock and how he could try to shorten their inevitable time in jail. It didn't help that his superior was on his arse all morning about the matter.

"He's dead," Donovan repeated. "The freak's dead."

Lestrade felt his stomach drop as the doors opened on the ground floor. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. That just wasn't possible.

"He committed suicide," Donovan said as they walked.

"No, he didn't."

"Yes," Donovan said, putting her hands on his shoulders to stop him. "He did. There are witnesses."

Lestrade felt his breathing shallow, and the room began to spin around him. He shut his eyes, hoping it was all a dream, that maybe he did fall asleep last night. He pinched his arm. It hurt.

He was awake, and Sherlock was dead.

"He jumped off of St. Bart's hospital. Sir, if you don't want to come out there with us-"

"No, I'll go," he interrupted. "When did this happen?"

"A few minutes ago," Donovan answered as they walked to the car. "We just got the call. Sir, you don't look so well."

"What do you expect?" Lestrade yelled. "Donovan, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. I'll drive."

His hands shook during the entirety of the trip as his mind raced. No matter what Donovan had said, he couldn't grasp the idea that Sherlock Holmes wasn't alive. He'd gotten out of scrapes before. Sherlock was brilliant; he couldn't give up that easily.

The hospital director met them as they arrived.

"I'm sorry to bring you out like this," the man said. Lestrade nodded in his direction before directing his gaze to the roof. Never before had a building looked so tall.

"Where was the body found?" Donovan asked.

"In the front," the director answered. "We moved the body immediately to the morgue."

"Witnesses?"

"There were very few witnesses of the fall itself," the man said gravely. "One is in the hospital now being treated for shock and minor injuries."

Lestrade clenched his fists, wanting the shaking to stop. "Has anyone checked the roof?"

"Not yet. We've got the area where Holmes fell blocked off, so you can check that after you're done up there. I'll show you the stairs."

Donovan gave him what seemed to be a sympathetic smile. "C'mon," she said nudging him to follow the director.

Each step that they took reminded Lestrade about the height of the building, the height that Sherlock fell from. He put on gloves as he thought of any possible chance of survival.

Donovan opened the door. Another body was waiting for them.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, stopping in the door frame. It was Moriarty.

"Oh my god, who is that?" the director asked, clutching his heart.

"It's Moriarty," said Donovan as they walked to the corpse. "Or Richard Brook, whatever his name is."

"Moriarty," Lestrade said, kneeling down next to the criminal. Blood seeped out of the skull and a pistol lay near the body. "Send a crew from the morgue, Doctor. He's dead."

The director hurried back down the stairs. Lestrade stood and walked around the roof. The sunshine mocked the scene. "Why would you do this, Sherlock? Why?"

"I always knew that there was something funny about him-"

"Donovan, shut up!" Lestrade felt his control slipping away from him. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Sir?" He turned to Donovan. She held a very familiar phone. "Is this-"

"Yeah, that's his phone," he said. "Check the recent calls, texts, anything that we can use to try to piece this together."

Lestrade glanced over the roof to the scene below. Nothing there could have blocked his fall. He would have been dead on impact.

"Maybe Moriarty threatened Sherlock," he muttered. "Pointed the gun, forced him to jump, and then pulled the trigger on himself?"

His own phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown source.

He opened it.

"Wrong."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade stared at the text. That wasn't possible. Dead men don't text.

He closed the message and blinked. Maybe it was the sunlight playing a trick on him. He opened the message again.

"_Wrong."_

He was tired and confused. The message probably said something else, anything else.

"_Wrong."_

"Donovan!" Lestrade shouted.

"What is it, sir?" she asked as she made her way to the ledge.

"What does this say?" He handed her the phone.

"'Wrong'," she said, giving him a concerned look before returning the phone. "What about it?"

Lestrade shook his head as he put his phone back in his pocket. "Nothing. Find anything on the phone?"

"His last call was to John Watson," Donovan answered. "Some texts between him and Moriarty too."

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak when a police team opened the door. It appeared that Anderson was leading them.

"Clear the area, take notes on everything," Anderson ordered as he walked to Lestrade and Donovan. "So did he kill him, then?"

"We don't know," Donovan answered before Lestrade could speak. "So far, we've just found the freak's phone."

"He's not a-" Lestrade stopped. "He wasn't a freak."

"And what about those kids?" Anderson asked. "The evidence is all there-"

"No, it's not all there!" he interrupted. "We don't know-"

"The girl screamed," said Donovan. "She was scared of him-"

"She's been poisoned with high levels of mercury, she's probably scared of everything!" Lestrade shook his head. "I'm not having this conversation with you again. We need to examine the evidence before we can assume anything."

"Well, he's dead, so getting any information out of him would be difficult," Anderson said. "His brain's pretty smashed in."

Lestrade looked up. "You've seen him?"

Anderson nodded. "He's in the morgue."

Lestrade made for the door. "Anderson, you're in charge up here. Sally, I'm heading down there now. I-" he paused as the situation became very real. "I need to say goodbye."


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade and Donovan walked down the flights of stairs in silence. What had just happened became was becoming real, the nightmare was living. Still, Lestrade was praying that the body they would see in the morgue would not be Sherlock's.

His fears were confirmed when they opened the morgue door. Molly Hooper was sobbing next to a body.

"Oh my God." Lestrade felt like his feet were glued to the ground as Donovan walked ahead of him. He felt nauseous, and could soon taste the coffee from earlier coming back. He shut his eyes, trying to regain focus. He thought he was ready for this, but how can you be ready to see your friend dead on a table?

"He really is dead," he heard Donovan whisper. His heart was pounding a steady taboo against his chest as he walked to the body. _Not a dream, not a dream, not a dream. _

"Oh, Greg!" Molly rushed into his arms, her cries becoming louder. There were feet hanging out of the body bag. Lestrade stopped. He couldn't walk further, as Molly was leaning into him.

"That's him?" he asked, his own eyes beginning to water.

Molly nodded into his chest. "That's him," she choked.

"Molly," Lestrade said, gently moving Molly off of him. "Moriarty's dead."

She looked up, shock written across her red face. "What?"

"He was shot," Donovan interjected. "Either he killed himself or Freak, I mean, Sherlock did it."

Molly shook her head. "That wasn't supposed to-" she paused before bounding into his arms again. "Why is this happening?"

"I don't know, Molly... I don't know." Lestrade's breath became shortened as tears fell onto his cheeks. He peeled Molly off of him again and stood directly next to the table. "Sherlock, I'm sorry for doubting you-"

"Shh, Greg," Molly said, pulling him away and sitting him down into a chair. He put his head in his hands and cried. He knew that people were watching, but at that moment, he didn't care. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and the world would never be the same.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade sat in the morgue staring at the bag containing the body of Sherlock Holmes. Every time he stood up to inspect the corpse, Molly would sit him back down in the chair. He just wanted to say goodbye, but she would tell him that his face was bloody and broken, and she didn't want him to see it. Moriarty's corpse soon joined the cold room. His body was originally placed next to Sherlock's, but Lestrade voiced his objections to the arrangement, so the criminal was moved to a different table. Molly soon regained her composure and began her work on the new body. Her crying had slowed, but her face was still red.

The world crumbling around him. He and his wife were getting a divorce, and she was going to have the primary custody of their children. Last night, the chief superintendent made Sherlock the number one suspect of the missing Bruhl children case, and Sherlock and John disappeared. Early this morning, the exposé about Richard Brook and Sherlock was published. The journalist wrote that Moriarty was fake, and that he was really an actor named Richard Brook. Sherlock paid Brook to play the role of villain of the crimes that he really committed. The story was published in a gossip paper, but the word spread like fire. Anderson and Donovan could hardly contain their gloating when they found out. When his co-workers passed by, they gave him questioning looks. It didn't help that Sherlock and John were missing. He didn't want to bring them into the Yard to be questioned, but his superior wouldn't have any other options. He'd spent the night in his office making halfhearted phone calls to people, asking if they'd seen the detective or doctor.

Donovan had been standing with the other forensic pathologists during this, talking about the death and causes. She'd been relatively quiet, but Lestrade heard "Oh my God!" He looked turned to her.

"John Watson was a witness," she said, walking to him.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

Donovan pulled him out of the chair. "He saw the whole thing! The phone call, the one I told you about, it might have happened before Freak jumped."

"I told you to stop calling him 'Freak'," said Lestrade.

"It doesn't matter, he was a fake and he's dead-"

"It does too matter! Sherlock Holmes is my friend, Donovan! And now he's- and now he's-" Lestrade trailed off at the words that couldn't be said.

Donovan shook her head. "He's dead. I'll try not to call him a freak around you, but I can't promise that I'll stop calling him that permanently. Dr. Watson is upstairs. Apparently, he was hit by a bicycle."

"A bicycle?" Lestrade asked. He turned to Molly. "I'll be back later," he told her. "I've got to go see John."

Molly nodded before continuing her work. "I'll be here."

"Yeah, a bicycle," Donovan repeated as they walked out of the morgue. "Some of the witnesses say that he started running to the body, but was hit by a man on a bicycle. He might have a concussion."

Lestrade opened the door to a sparkling clean hallway. "And then what happened?"

"He took his pulse before collapsing," she continued. "The doctors brought him up here. You do realize that we're going to have to arrest him."

"Look, can't this wait until-"

"No, it can't. You've seen how angry the chief is about this. Our jobs will be on the line."

"It just doesn't seem right to arrest him here-"

Lestrade was cut off by a wounded cry.

"Please, he's my friend, I have to see him!"

"Dr. Watson, you need sit down."

"But he's my friend..."

Lestrade paused before walking into the hospital room of a broken man.


	5. Chapter 5

"John," Lestrade said, going to his friend. Tears stained John's face, and his eyes were bloodshot. He nodded at the St. Bart's doctor. "What happened?"

"He was hit by a bicycle, and has a mild concussion," the doctor explained. "He should be alright now."

"He won't be alright," Lestrade answered quietly. "John?"

"Sherlock-" John shook his head. "He ju- Sherlock jumped, and he- and he..."

"He's in the morgue. Sally and I were just down there, and we-" Lestrade stopped as he noticed his sergeant was not standing next to him. He spun around in a circle. There was still no sign of Donovan. Lestrade excused himself from the room and went back into the hall. He looked left and found her sitting on the floor, her head in her hands.

"Sally?" This day was getting odder by the minute.

"I'm not going in there," he heard her mumble.

"What?" asked Lestrade.

"I'm not going in there," she repeated. "It wouldn't be right."

"Wouldn't be right?" He was stunned. "Sally, just ten minutes ago you called Sherlock a freak-"

"Look, with him it's different!" Donovan looked up at him. "I can't say 'I told you so'... I'll join you in a few minutes."

"Okay," he nodded, still not understanding. "Okay."

John's crying had lessened when Lestrade returned. The doctor was standing in a corner, taking notes.

"Um, sorry, but can we be alone?" The doctor looked up.

"I'm going to need this room in five minutes," she answered.

"Look, we'll move in a bit, but can we be alone now?"

She sighed. "Alright."

"So, you saw it all?" Lestrade asked after the doctor left. Donovan now stood in the doorway.

"I saw it all."

"Jesus, John..."

"So did you talk to him before it happened?" Donovan walked into the room and took a seat next to Lestrade. "We found his phone on the roof."

"He, um, he told me that the call was..." John trailed off. "The phone call was his note. That p-people normally left notes. He said 'good-bye, John' and f-fell. Before that he t-told me that he was a fake, that it was a magic trick."

"He actually said he was a fake?" asked Donovan.

"Yes, and are you happy now?" John's voice rose. "Are you happy that he's- that he's g-gone?"

"No, I'm not!" Donovan snapped. "We never got along, but I'm not happy that he's dead!"

Lestrade was about to cut into the argument when the door opened. The doctor stood looking slightly shocked.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm going to need this room now."

They walked out into the hallway in silence. No words were said until they walked through the front doors of St. Bart's.

"I'm sorry," Donovan confessed, blinking at the sunlight.

"You're what?" asked John.

"I never had any hard feelings against you, and I'm sorry for your loss."

John nodded, and Donovan gave him a sympathetic look.

"John, I'm-" Lestrade stopped, trying to find a way to say the hated words. "I'm going to have to take you down to the Yard. I don't want to do it, but-"

"I avoided arrest," John finished.

"I mean, it wasn't entirely your fault, since you were a hostage-"

"but I decked your boss."

"It will only be a minor charge," said Donovan. "Just a fine, probably."

"We'll take you there now," Lestrade added. "I'll call Mrs. Hudson and have her pick you up."

As Donovan and John walked to the car, he followed behind, taking out his phone, wishing that he would not be the first to break the news to the faithful landlady.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade looked down at his coffee mug. No matter how much he drank, the caffeine still wouldn't do the trick. His head was pounding. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, and he only wanted to go home and sleep. He wanted this nightmare of a day to end. Deep down inside, Lestrade knew that the nightmare wouldn't end; it was only beginning.

His phone call with Mrs. Hudson had been brief. Her neighbor Mrs. Turner had already told her the grave news. Any minute now, the landlady would be at New Scotland Yard to post John Watson's bail. When Lestrade heard the knock on his door, he expected to see Mrs. Hudson. Instead, Detective Inspector Dimmock entered his office.

"So it's true then?" Dimmock asked, folding his arms across his chest as he sat down.

Lestrade nodded. "I saw his body."

"I can't believe it," said Dimmock quietly. "Any of it. I only worked with him once, but there is no way that he could have faked all of that. He couldn't just give an impromptu performance all of the time. But why would he kill himself?"

"I don't know," he whispered. Hearing the news again was painful.

"You knew him the longest, didn't you? Got him started?"

"Well, at the Yard, yes. Obviously Mycroft has known him the longest."

"You mean 'knew'."

"Yeah... Anyways, Sherlock just sort of showed up at a crime scene and told me what I was doing wrong."

"Sounds like him. Oh, the chief's trying to make John Watson a suspect for that kidnapping now."

Lestrade groaned. "That's ridiculous! There's hardly any evidence that would connect him. The chief's just trying to get him on anything right now. There's the assault charge, but that will be pretty minimum."

"And from what I've heard, Sherlock made Watson his hostage when he resisted arrest, so that's out."

"Sherlock really saved John that night," Lestrade felt his eyes brim with tears. _Not here, Greg, not here._ "It's all my fault that that happened. I stopped believing in him, and then the chief got bloody pissed. I called John to give him a warning, but that was it. I was supposed to arrest Sherlock. What if I'm the reason he jumped?"

"Greg, I don't think that you're the reason why Sherlock jumped off the roof. It could have been anything, probably the story that was just published. If he was a fake-"

"Hold on, you said that you didn't think he was a fake."

"I don't, I mean, I didn't think he was one, but I can't figure out why he would kill himself if he wasn't a fake."

Lestrade opened his mouth to counter the other detective inspector when Donovan walked through his door.

"Sir," she said, "a Mrs. Hudson is here to see you."

"Send her in," Lestrade answered. As Donovan left, he began to pray that he would wake up from this dream, that the bad day would be imaginary. When he opened his eyes, he saw the small form of Mrs. Hudson slowly walking near him, and he knew that from this day forward, every day would be a nightmare.


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs. Hudson was crying, and there was nothing Lestrade could do to stop her. She had no children of her own, and he was certain that she'd begun to treat Sherlock and John like sons.

"Mrs. Turner from next door told me," she choked. "Tell me it's not true."

Lestrade shook his head. Dimmock stood from his chair.

"I should go," he motioned to the door. "Um, Mrs. Hudson, you can take my seat. I'll see you later, Greg."

Mrs. Hudson sat down and looked at him, makeup smearing around her eyes.

"Here," Lestrade said, handing her a box of tissues.

"You arrested him," she said as she dabbed at her eyes.

"I had to," he countered. "I'm not proud of it, but John chinned the superintendent and disappeared for a couple days."

"I wasn't talking about John. I was talking about Sherlock! You arrested him."

"Mrs. Hudson, I didn't have any other choice."

"Of course you had a choice," she snapped. Lestrade bit his tongue and waited. "Did you really think that he kidnapped those children? Poisoned them?"

"No, I didn't! Others did, though, and we talked to the chief superintendent and, well, I had to arrest Sherlock. I managed to call John in time to warn him. If they didn't run off, I'm sure that everything would have been cleared up by now."

"I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye."

"Neither did I."

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything for the next fifteen minutes. He tried to make himself busy with paperwork, but his mind always wandered back to the crisis at hand. He wondered if he would ever be able to get any work done again.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry," he said, ending the silence between them.

"It's alright, dear," she sniffed. "It wasn't your fault."

"I still feel like shit though."

"Even now, there's no need for that. It's a bit vulgar."

Lestrade gave the landlady a weak smile as Donovan walked back into his office.

"The chief's booking John Watson."

* * *

><p>Thanks for all of the reviews so far! I know this is a short chapter, but I'll try to update it soon.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

The news of John's arrest caused Mrs. Hudson to cry heavily again. According to Donovan, he was being charged with assault. Detective Inspector Gregson had apparently convinced the chief against the resisting arrest charge, and Lestrade felt gratitude for his colleague sweeping over him. Mrs. Hudson was to pay the bail for John, and Lestrade was to drive them back to their flat as his work day was almost over. He wanted to forget it all, every detail of the day. Nothing good happened; only bad.

The small group left his office to retrieve the army doctor, and made their way around the cubicles.

"Lestrade!" he looked to his left and saw DI Martin marching towards him.

"What is it?"

"The chief just sent out an order for all of us senior officer to turn in every file that we've had in the last seven years," said Martin. "Do you know about this?"

"Oh shit," Lestrade muttered. "Mrs. Hudson, Donovan will take you downstairs. I'll catch up with you shortly." He turned to Martin. "I might have had a small part in this-"

"What did you do?" Martin interrupted.

"You know the kidnapping case," he began, "Anderson and Donovan thought that Sherlock might have been the kidnapper."

"Yeah, I know that part. What I don't know is why I have to go through seven years of files!"

"Well, um, they took me to the chief," Lestrade said, ending his eye contact with his colleague. "And he wanted to know why Sherlock was involved in this case. I told him that he's been helping out around here-"

"For seven years-"

"-and that I wasn't the only senior officer to employ him."

"So you threw us all under the bus."

Lestrade felt his stomach churn. "Look, I didn't mean to-"

"You just wanted the push the blame off of you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think that he'd actually want to go through the records-"

"But he is. Look, I really don't want to be made redundant-"

"You won't be-"

"-but I have the feeling that I will."

"Look, just stay calm, and sort through the paperwork. The chief will see that we all worked with Sherlock, and it will all be okay. Okay?"

Martin nodded. "You won't be, though, will you?"

Lestrade sighed as he felt his stomach churn again. "I brought him here seven years ago. Sherlock was my friend, or at least I considered him to be a friend. God, this day... It's been hell."

"Go downstairs," Martin said, clapping him on the shoulder with a folder. "It will probably be sorted out when you get down there. You'll just need to drive 'em home."

"It won't feel like home when they get there. Not without Sherlock."

"Yeah, right. I'll see you on Monday, Greg."

Lestrade resumed his walk, feeling sicker with each step. Reaching the stairwell, he walked down the stairs slowly as his mind raced through everything that had happened so far. He wished that he had never woken up on such a terrible day, the day Sherlock Holmes died.

John was leaning against Mrs. Hudson, his face a ghostly white color.

"Ready to go?" asked Lestrade. John nodded. "Right, well, let's just, um... go."

They walked to the door, stopping when they heard thunder.

"Damnit," Lestrade whispered. "I'll pull my car up next to the building so you don't have to walk out there-"

"Greg, it's fine," John countered.

"No, I'll just be a minute." He ran out the door into the rain. Lighting flashed above him, thunder soon following. Reaching his car, he fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them twice.

"Dear, you're soaked to the bone," Mrs. Hudson said when she sat down next to John in the backseat.

"Don't worry about, Mrs. Hudson. I'll just change when I get back to my flat."

"Why don't you come in for a cuppa? That'll warm you up a bit."

"I need something stronger than that. Thanks though. Maybe tomorrow."

The rest of the ride was quiet except for the occasional crack of thunder. There was nothing to be said. When he pulled up next to the flat, Lestrade promised Mrs. Hudson that he would be with them in time for lunch the next day.

"John," he said after the landlady walked out. "Christ, I don't even know what to say."

The doctor's eyes were haunted, and he left the car without a word.

* * *

><p>DI Gregson and DI Martin are two of the many inspectors from the original Sherlock Holmes stories. I may or may not be using Martin again as this fic continues, but I do plan to reuse Gregson later on.<p>

Thank you so much for all of your thoughts and reviews.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade walked through the doorway, leaning against the front door as it shut. He slid to the floor and curled his knees to his chest. He was finally back at his flat, but it didn't feel like home. He was tired and cold. The rain pattered against the window. He was home, but he didn't feel any better. He felt empty instead.

Very slowly, Lestrade stood up and made his way into his kitchen. He flicked the light switch and shrugged his coat off, throwing it over a chair. His phone told him that he had several new voicemails. He groaned when he heard his chief tell him that he was in charge of a press conference surrounding Sherlock's suicide in the morning. Lestrade had the feeling that this was only the beginning of his punishment for disobedience. The next message was from his ex-wife Kate, wondering if she should take care of their children that weekend. The remaining messages were from reporters wanting the sordid details. These would be the calls he would make first.

While he cooked his dinner, Lestrade called the journalists, telling each one that all would be explained at 9 o'clock the next morning. They asked questions anyways, and he felt his temperature rise like the water he was boiling.

"Look," he said as he poured pasta into the pot, "I know you've got questions, but they're going tobe answered tomorrow."

"But what am I supposed to write?" the voice asked.

"Stick with the basics. Our official report will be given tomorrow."

The next call was to his ex-wife.

"Hi, Kate," he said as he brought his dinner to the table.

"How are you doing?" Kate asked.

"How do you think? I'm bloody miserable and tired."

"Neil told me what happened." Lestrade stabbed the pasta at the sound of her boyfriend's name. "Oh my God, Greg, what the hell happened?"

"I wish I knew. Wait, how did Neil know?"

"He heard it on the news. It wasn't much, just that he was dead, apparent suicide."

"Yeah."

"That's just horrid. Really horrid. I mean, I can't say that I'm surprised. I read about him being a fake yesterday, which really surprised me. It just shows that you can't trust anybody, can you? And you trusted him. I remember that you complained about him all the time, but you really did trust him."

"Kate, I didn't call for a lecture. I called about the kids."

"Of course! The kids! Do you want me to watch Luke and Grace this weekend? I know you're supposed to have them on the weekends, but given the current circumstances, you're probably going to be loaded with work. You wouldn't have the time to be with them."

He sighed. If there was one thing that he hated about divorcing his wife, it was that she managed to get primary custody of their children. "Sure, but can I see them more next week?"

"Of course you can. Oops, I've got to go. Neil's got dinner on the table. Good luck with everything, and I'm really, truly sorry about what happened."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Bye, Greg."

Lestrade pressed the end button and looked down at his plate. He wasn't really hungry. He'd hardly eaten anything that day, but he just didn't have an appetite. When he raised the fork to his mouth, a nauseating feeling swept over him. Lestrade put his fork back on his plate and left the table. He returned a minute later with a glass and a bottle of scotch. "Here's to this being all a damn nightmare when I wake up," he said as he poured the liquor into the glass. He switched on the telly, hoping for good news of any sort. The first channel that he found was discussing the suicide. The next was a documentary about crime. Disgusted, Lestrade turned it off and spent his time drinking in silence. He was on his fourth glass when his phone buzzed.

"What is it, Donovan?"

"I'm just calling to remind you that-"

"The press conference is at 9:00 tomorrow, I know."

"Be there at 8:30."

"Okay, I will."

"Alright, well, bye then."

"Bye."

Lestrade's head was pounding by the time he set his alarm clock for the morning. He looked at his phone once more before slipping under his sheets. There was still one text message that didn't make sense. The word 'wrong' stared at him.

"Wrong," he muttered. "It just says 'wrong'. And it couldn't have been you, Sherlock. No, it couldn't have been you because you were in the morgue by that point in a body bag. You didn't even say good-bye, Sherlock. We've known each other for nearly ten years, doesn't that matter? You can't expect me to be okay with you jumping off the roof. Sherlock, I trusted you! I put all of my trust in you! All of it. And now you're dead. That's wrong. That's what's wrong, Sherlock. You're dead. How can you be dead? You, you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. How could you have been a fake? I mean, you'd have to be bloody brilliant to be a fake, but why would you waste that talent on lying? And why would you lie to me?"

Lestrade shut his eyes, praying for sleep to come. Images of Sherlock flashed before him, and he felt the sting of tears. He saw Moriarty looking triumphant at the trial, the two kidnapped children in the hospital, and finally the body bag in the morgue. "You were my friend, Sherlock!" he whispered. " For God's sake, you were my friend."


	10. Chapter 10

_He was running into the brick building, searching every corner for Sherlock and John. He turned left and saw John limping on the stairs, calling for Sherlock. BANG! Greg ran to the roof and found Moriarty's body. He looked up just in time to see Sherlock fall._

"NO!"

Greg woke up drenched in sweat. He felt his breathing slow as he lay back down on his pillow. The clock's face told him that it was 2 o'clock. He didn't have to be awake for hours. There was a buzzing sound coming from his intercom. He moved out of his bed and felt his stomach churn. He barely reached the toilet in time before he was sick and vomited the alcohol from the evening. The knowledge that Sherlock was dead hit him again. It wasn't a dream. It was real.

He slowly walked to the kitchen, but was surprised to see the lights on. He was more surprised to see Mycroft sitting at his table, his hands folded together.

"Mycroft," he whispered, "how did you-"

"Oh, I had spare keys made ages ago, just in case of an emergency," Mycroft answered. "You may want to drink some water, it will settle your stomach and make you feel better in the morning for the conference."

Lestrade nodded and went to the sink. "Do you want anything?"

"No, nothing." Mycroft sighed. "When were you going to let me know about my brother?"

He nearly dropped the glass and turned to the elder Holmes. "Oh, God, Mycroft, I'm sorry-"

"Yes, well it appears that everybody thought I knew about it, and I received condolences and phone calls throughout the day. I visited the scene soon after you left for the Yard with Dr. Watson. Now, what are you going to say at the press conference tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure," Greg said, taking a seat next to Mycroft at the table. "I don't really understand it. First the kidnapping, and then the Richard Brook story, and now this. You and John probably knew him the best out of anyone. However, John's story is tainted. He decked the chief for insulting Sherlock; anything that he says will sound biased. Most people don't know that you and Sherlock are brothers- were brothers... Mycroft, I'm so sorry."

"Yes, well, there isn't anything that can be done. What happened yesterday did happen. Considering how much you drank last night, I believe that you find yourself partly responsible for his death."

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft raised his hand. "Hear me out," he continued. "You were faced with a choice. You did your job, but you feel guilty that you didn't help my brother. There was nothing you could have done. You acted in a responsible manner, Gregory."

"So what do you want me to do at the conference?"

"Give them the facts. Don't let your personal opinions show. James Moriarty was a dangerous man with many followers. If you show your feelings about what happened, you may put yourself in danger." Mycroft stood from his seat. "I'll be in touch with funeral arrangements. Finish your water and go to bed. Judging from the circles under your eyes, you haven't had much sleep lately. I'll show myself out."

Greg turned in his seat. "Family's important, Mycroft. Tomorrow, I'm calling Kate and picking up the kids. I can't go through this alone. Sherlock was your only family left. Who's looking after you in all this?"

Mycroft dropped his hand from the doorknob and spun around to face Lestrade. "I've always looked after myself. This will be no different. Good night."

He walked out the door, and Lestrade heard it lock shut. Again, he was left alone in the flat, and the ghosts of Sherlock and Moriarty crept back into his memory.


	11. Chapter 11

**This chapter's a little different as it's told from Sally's POV. Also, I recently watched Reichenbach again and realized that I made a few errors about the timeline. They should all be fixed now. I know it's been awhile since I updated, but I'll try to have Chapter 12 up in a week. :)**

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><p>Sally Donovan stared at the ceiling and let out a quiet sigh. No matter how hard she tried, her eyes would not stay closed. If she blinked, she was back at St. Bart's, and the bodies of Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook (Moriarty?) lay before her. Staying awake meant that she was forced to think about the past 48 hours. Sally wasn't sure how anyone from the Yard could sleep. The ambassador's kidnapped children, the freak turned fugitive, the murder-suicide; she wished that it would all be a bad dream.<p>

A wave of light rolled across the room from the window as a car passed her flat. Anderson rolled over next to her and put an arm over her waist. He had fallen asleep hours ago, and Sally wondered what he was dreaming about. She wished that he was awake, not to talk, but just to be awake in the silence together. She wasn't sure if she wanted to talk about the recent events to anyone.

Sherlock Holmes was actually dead. Anderson had told her the news minutes about an hour into the workday. Hearing the news was completely different from seeing it. Though the pathologist didn't allow her to inspect the body closely, Sally could see that he was dead. She never held back her opinions about the detective, but she never wanted him to be dead. Locked away from crime scenes, yes, but not dead. She could see the impact that his death had on people, people who cared about him, and felt a bit of pity for them. There was the pathologist in the morgue whose eyes were puffy from crying. Sherlock's landlady was distressed as well. Lestrade appeared to be lost. He had relied on Sherlock in so many cases, and the idea that he was a fraud seemed to haunt him. And then there was Doctor John Watson. He was a good man who had been dragged into the mess. She'd warned him not to get involved with the detective, but the promise of danger seemed to be to inviting to the doctor. Sally didn't believe the rumors that the two men were lovers; Sherlock Holmes didn't seem capable of love. She pitied those who loved him because she knew that he really didn't care about any of them. He used them all to get what he wanted.

It was her second week as a sergeant when she met the consulting detective. Sally was four years younger and eager to please. There had been a triple murder, and there didn't seem to be any clues pointing to a murderer. She desperately wanted to help in any way possible, and on that night she was merely giving directions in front of the house, keeping strangers away from the scene of the crime. Still, she felt like she was important. She had been talking to Lestrade about the lack of details when the tall man in the long coat appeared and tried to enter.

"I'm sorry, you can't come in the house; it's a crime scene." Sally had said as she stood in front of him, blocking his way through the door.

"Who's this?" the man had asked Lestrade.

"Donovan, let him in," Lestrade answered, tapping her shoulder. "This is Sherlock Holmes; you'll probably see him quite a bit."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the only competent person to do this job," Sherlock replied, brushing his way past them.

"Does he work for us?"

"Kind of, sort of, er, he's a consulting detective-"

"He's a what?"

"I solve crimes that nobody can."

"I could do that."

"No, you couldn't," Sherlock stopped on the stairs and turned around, raking his eyes over her body. "You're new to the job, just got a promotion. I don't see any tobacco residue on your person, so I know you're not a smoker. You had a sandwich for dinner judging by the crumbs on your jacket. There's an ink stain on your right hand, proving that you're right-handed. The watch on your wrist has scratch marks. You don't treat it with care. There is a tanline on your left ring finger; you're newly single from a long engagement. I don't think that you were married; a divorce may put you in a state of distress, but I can gather from the look that you gave me when I mentioned your finger that you weren't the one to call it off. Now tell me what you can read from me, and if you get everything correct, then maybe you can solve crimes like me."

"Sherlock," Lestrade muttered.

"No, I'm waiting for the sergeant's answer."

Sally stared at him, his blue eyes piercing through her. "You're a freak!" she spat before going back outside. She leaned against the bricks and held her head up. Footsteps drew close to her, but Sally ignored them.

"So you just met Sherlock Holmes?" a voice said. Sally turned and saw Anderson lean against the building next to her.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

"Lestrade likes to bring him in to do our jobs if the answer isn't clear," Anderson had told her. "He doesn't listen to anyone, so don't think he'll listen to you. He's a freak that likes strange cases."

Sally looked up. "He knew about my engagement. How did he know about that?"

"Like I said, he's a freak. He can see things that people miss, but he's bloody arrogant about it. How are you doing? I haven't seen you much since it, um, ended."

Sally gave him a weak smile. "I'm alright. It's been two weeks now, and he's moved all of his stuff out of my flat. I still don't know why he changed his mind."

"Another woman?"

"Not that I know of."

"If you ever need anything, I'm here for you," Anderson put a hand on her shoulder. "Really. Anything you need."

"And your wife would be okay with that?"

"I don't see why not."

"Anderson, I don't believe that your wife would approve of you trying to gain the trust of the sergeant," a baritone voice said behind them. Sally looked over Anderson's shoulder and saw Sherlock head towards the street, Lestrade following behind him.

"Are you done here?" Anderson called after them.

"It wasn't murder, it was a suicide pact," Sherlock explained. "The three victims stabbed each other, and before the third died, he hid the knife in a dresser drawer along with the note. Easy case! Oh, and Sergeant Donovan," he spun around and began walking backwards, "I really wouldn't continue talking to Anderson. He's an idiot, and if you ever want to be a proper officer, you'd be best to ignore every word he says."

Sherlock turned around again and Sally watched him duck under the yellow tape before getting into a cab. "Freak."

Another beam of light rolled across her bedroom. Sally looked at her clock and saw that it was already 4 in the morning. In another three hours, her alarm would go off. Anderson muttered something under his breath and moved closer. They began their affair twenty months ago, and she wasn't sure what their future contained. His wife traveled often, and it sounded as if they had fallen out of love. Sally wasn't sure why they were still together, as they didn't have children to care for. They never spoke of it. In a way, she supposed that it was Sherlock that brought them together. Their affair began on a day that the detective had been especially insufferable. Frustration led to drinks which subsequently led to Sally's bed. She wished that she could have seen the look on Sherlock's face if they had told him. There would never be a time for that now.

Sally closed her eyes. She'd only been doing her job. There were clues that pointed to him. He could have been the kidnapper. The evidence was all there, and it now appeared that she and Anderson were right; Sherlock Holmes was a fake. Yet even he didn't deserve to die.


End file.
